Diamond Eyes
by R.S. Valentine
Summary: I'm on the front line, don't worry, I'll be fine; the story is just beginning. I say goodbye to my weakness, so long to my regret and now I see the world through diamond eyes.  SoapGhost bromance; written for a very special friend.


[Diamond Eyes]

_ A white-hot agony rips through my chest, or is it my gut? I think it might be both. I'm face up on the ground, the sky a bright blue, clouds thrown into sharp relief by my polarized shades. I'm still breathing, though; that's a plus. It's shallow and I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. A warm wetness spreads under my shirt. Is that my blood? Bugger of a question; of course it's fucking mine. I'll be dead within a few hours, give or take. Gut wounds are supposed to hurt like bloody Hell and take a long time to kill a man. It's almost funny how quickly I come up with all that shite. I'd laugh but for the circumstances, since there's probably a hole in my diaphragm. I don't struggle when I'm hoisted by two soldiers and tossed into a shallow ditch; it's really no more than a pock mark in the brown grass field. I'm not alone. _

_Is that Roach? Yeah, I saw Shepherd shoot him in the chest; the poor kid's lying there, bleeding out from the wound. Judging by the look on his face, he's about in shock. All things considered, he's holding himself together well. I land on my back, facing the kid; he looks at me, gray eyes full of...what is that? Fear? Anguish? Hatred...? I know that's what I'm feeling. My breathing is so shallow now, it's probably the only factor keeping that bastard Shepherd from checking my pulse. I can feel my mask filling with blood as short bursts of air force their way out of my throat. I wouldn't call it breathing; it's more of a reflex. It won't be long before I start choking on it. If I'm lucky, that'll kill me first. A sudden acrid smell fills my hyper-sensitive nostrils. Petrol..._

_They're pouring it on him, just him. Shepherd doesn't want to waste any of his precious fuel on me; I'm clearly dead already. Roach's gaze has moved from me to the traitor-General, who has pulled the large, lit stogie out of his teeth. Without so much as a word, he tosses it nonchalantly on the kid, lighting his still-bleeding, still-breathing body ablaze. Every nerve in my body screams to stand, fight for him, cry out; I can't even move. I can't say a damn thing, can't even turn my head away as I watch the highly defined flames take him into oblivion. I suddenly wish they'd done the same to me. It would be easier than living with that sight seared into my retinas. Roach...Gary can't even express the pain of the flames taking him; he's already dead, the look of horror and pain frozen on his young face. I close my eyes, praying to whatever deity's listening to finish the job and quickly; I can't stand this much longer. _

"_...ost...Ghost!" the accent is heavily Scottish and the voice is comfortingly familiar. "Steh weth me; don' leht go!"_

_He has one of my hands, his other arm is around my chest. We're in a medivac heli, I think. The normal procedure for one of these things is that the patient in question is securely strapped to a gurney. Obviously, Soap doesn't think that would be enough and so is clutching my body tightly to his, bellowing in my ear. The massive arm that's around my chest has, in the grasp of its meaty paw, my mask. The thing is positively dripping. I shudder and immediately regret the action, tensing in a manner suggesting a vomit. What comes up is gooey and warm and decidedly not my lunch. _

"_Oh Jesus, Simon..." he mutters under his breath, the strong voice shaking for a fraction of a second. I'm vaguely aware of Price's presence, too; he seems to be talking to Soap. I can't really discern his words, or Soap's replies to him. All my battered ears seem capable of picking up is Soap, whisper/hollering only to me. Everything goes black soon after, the roar of the heli and my partner drowned out by the desperate need for sleep..._

"It's been weeks, Price..."

"Yeah, and you're always here; that's not going to make him wake up sooner. I need your mind to be on the mission, not him."

The two Englishmen discuss the fate of their comrade who even now sleeps so soundly that the roar of a jet engine cannot wake him. Clinically, this is known as a coma. To John "Soap" MacTavish, it's a damn annoyance. He needs his partner back. Price wants his best black-ops soldier back. Everyone wants something, the problem being, there's not enough to go around; someone's going to get shafted. Soap's determined it won't be him. His meaty club of a hand clasps his comatose friend's with surprising gentleness.

"Anna said if I talk, you can hear me," The nurse had informed him of this the day they brought his partner in. He's speaking, of course, to a battered, broken, sleeping Simon "Ghost" Riley. Ghost doesn't stir though his partner swears he can feel the slim man's fingers contract ever-so-slightly on his. "I need you back, boy-o; we're fallin' apart out here."

Price, who is still in the room, snorts with indignation.

"Watch your tone, boy," he growls. "Ya might scare 'im back in."

Price shifts away from the wall on which he is leaning and leaves the sterile room, seeking fare other than a downed soldier. A nurse replaces him. She's a slim, pretty thing, but must be strong as an ox as indicated by her statement when she enters the vicinity.

"Excuse me, Captain MacTavish, sir," her voice is quiet, gentle. "I have to bathe him."

Soap shakes his head. "Let me."

She stands a moment, slightly aghast. Their eyes meet. Whatever is exchanged is not verbal, but suddenly there is an understanding. If it was anyone else, she would flat deny them. Instead, the nurse nods and proceeds to check all life-sign monitors. Everything is nominal and so she pulls back the covers and nods to Soap. Ghost isn't hooked to a ventilator, miraculously; he's breathing on his own and so it's easier for his partner to lift his slim, lifeless form out of the light teal hospital sheets. The nurse moves around the bed and gently removes the IV feeder tube from Ghost's arm, laying it aside on a sterile table.

"It'll feel good to be clean, aye?" Soap's voice is soft. The nurse's eyes begin to sting and she's forced to look away as the Captain carries his fellow soldier to the small washroom adjacent Ghost's low-stimulation room. The lights are dim and the hot water has already been drawn in the man-sized bathtub within. Without hesitation, Soap drops to one knee and lays Ghost's scantly covered body into his lap. He braces Ghost's upper back on his own chest, just as he did in the chopper. The moment flashes in his mind...

"_Ghost…! GHOST! Stay with me!" I holler, clutching his hand. "Don't let go!"_

_Price is watching me. His eyes speak volumes. He's in awe of this display, he must be. He shakes his head in an 'I never knew you had it in you' gesture. Suddenly, Ghost's body tenses under my grip and a torrent of blood seeps down his chin. With the amount of blood already on his mask, it's clear he's been bleeding out awhile before we got to him. _

"_Oh Jesus, Simon..." is all I can mutter as I wipe the blood off his chin. Price looks from him and back to me._

"_You know he won't make it, Soap; let him go..." his command is somewhat lacking in conviction. Part of me wants to knock his crazy block off; the rest of me knows what Price says is absolutely correct, as usual and the best thing I can do for Ghost right now is to just hold him. _

"_Can't this rig go any faster?" I snarl to no one in particular. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I can see my partner cracking a smile. I turn my attention back to him and whisper anything and everything I can think of in his ear. _

Even at this point, Captain MacTavish isn't sure what he said to Lieutenant Riley in that medivac. All he knows now is the reality of his incapacitated friend. He tosses the hospital gown to the side. The nurse gathers it, forcing her eyes away from the heart-wrenching scene before her.

"Is there anything else I can get you, Captain?"

He shakes his head. "No, I'll take it from here; thank you, Anna."

She summons up a smile and backs out of the room, fighting tears. Of course he knows her name; MacTavish has been here before; it's not—strictly speaking—a legal operation but it's damn good and they need it. She emerges from the room with a quiver in her chest. Setting her jaw, Anna moves for the lounge.

The washroom is quiet, but for the light splash of water. Soap's hands move slowly, with purpose but extreme gentleness. The bottom of the tub is rubberized and so the Captain can take his hands off Ghost long enough to remove his civvie shirt. It's been splashed just a bit. The big Scot wishes it were someone's fault other than his own that the garment is wet. He wishes Ghost would wake up and toss water at him. He'd demand Soap remove his "ruddy mitts" or some such colloquialism in his charming Easy London accent. The immobile soldier does no such thing. His head lolls on his shoulders, eyes closed, mouth passively shut. His partner sighs, shaking his head. The Mohawk has stayed in place, as always; Soap keeps it pristine, if for no other reason than when Simon wakes up, he's not going to see a haggard Captain John MacTavish; he will see a goddamn spic and you-bet-yer-arse span soldier, ready to jog right out onto the field with his newly arisen partner.

MacTavish is careful to clean every inch of his friend; the action takes his mind of the Lieutenant's utter stillness. He can feel the other soldier's countless scars as he meticulously massages and cleans. They mark his body like a story; each one having its own chapter and verse. Ghost is like a bible of warfare, dirty and otherwise.

"You're a wreck, mate," Soap whispers, splashing water up over Ghost's recently repaired chest; he scarring is still pink, myriad stitches having just been taken out within the past week. Soap turns his partner's head gently toward him, the hand on his cheek willing him to wake up. He can barely remember precisely what color his friend's eyes are; all he knows is that he recalls being intrigued by it on countless occasions. He buries his face in Ghost's thick, dark, red-brown hair. He memorizes the scent, as if he might soon lose it forever. Point of fact, his fear is well-founded. A coma is not an easy trap to escape, though Soap is confident that if anyone can do it, Ghost can. The Captain leans down lower, his mouth meeting Ghost's tentatively. For just a moment, he envisions Lieutenant Riley awakening due to the gentle touch of his partner's unexpectedly soft lips. In another place...another time perhaps, Soap would be laughing until tears flowed from his steely blue eyes. As it is, he cannot even manage a smile.

MacTavish had never considered himself "involved" with his lieutenant. Even now, he's not sure what he feels, aside from the obvious regret and vengeful rage that remains even after ending Shepherd. He just wants Ghost to wake the fuck up. He needs the other man's comforting presence. Price is off his rocker and—while they make an excellent team—there's a sourness to the friendship Soap is certain was caused by Price's stay in the gulag. Under his arm, he can feel the incapacitated soldier's shallow heartbeat. It's the gentle palpitation of someone who is dead asleep. There isn't much that comforts the big Captain more than the sound of another's heartbeat. He keeps the rhythm in his head even as he lifts his companion out of the lukewarm water. It is the loudest sound Soap has heard all afternoon. The task of drying Ghost would be difficult but for Soap's tremendous strength. Carefully, he manages to buff the poor man's body with a soft towel, all the while talking to him.

"I wish you'd have been there," he whispers, running the cloth over Ghost's legs. "I didn't even know if I'd make it..."

Soap pauses, the realization of that fact all too clear in his head now. Funny how the fog of battle disrupts coherent thought at the time.

_It's a blood-bath, a warzone of the worst kind. I'm not even sure where I am right now. The sounds of a rotor humming somewhere outside my range of vision let me know I'm at least alive...For now. The smoke won't clear and the redness doesn't leave the edges of my vision. C'mon you sod, get up! _

_I look around, scanning the reddish, smoky area for any signs of…what was I doing? The name flashes into my head like a mortar. Shepherd. He has to die. With the force of will one can only muster when enraged and vengeful, I force myself to my feet. A tac knife's all I got left. Good, fine; that'll do. I take a few stumbling steps and crash to my knees, coughing. There's so much smoke and debris, I'm not even sure I'm breathing air anymore. Everything's a pink blur as I follow the sound of that rotor. It's slowing up…soon it'll stop. There's a lump on the ground up ahead. I think it's moving; must be the pilot. He's on his way out. I don't even bother. Farther, just a little farther. _

_The copilot is still in his seat, his weapon clicking uselessly as he fires it at no one in particular. I end him. There's really no reason other than a vague sense of hostility. Where the fuck do I go now? As if pushed by a divine force, I stumble toward the wreckage of a car. There's someone leaning against it, heavily. Shepherd. Every red light, siren and nerve in my body is shrieking, howling and pulsing as I approach. Maim, incapacitate, kill...Just like he did to the American people...just like he did to Simon._

_I mumble something under my breath. I don't think either of us hears it as he grabs my knife arm and slams my head into the car. I'm on my back, looking up at a very red sky. Without hesitation, he disarms me and—_

Soap shakes himself out of the waking nightmare. The smell of gunsmoke and blood is naught but a phantom in the confines of this softly-lit washroom. But the phantom waits around every corner, just out of MacTavish's peripheral, waiting to spring.

"I got carried away," he informs his silent companion. Ghost's head is lolling onto his shoulder as Soap redresses him—if a hospital gown can be called "dressed"—and lays him back in the bed. He runs his fingers through Ghost's damp hair.

"Nurse said you bathed him; I wasn't sure 'til I saw that," Price is back and leaning in the doorway. Soap doesn't even look up. He doesn't consider Price's observation an insult, nor is it meant to be one...It's an observation.Perhaps the older Captain understands better than Soap how he feels with regards to the comatose soldier on the bed; he is reminded of his former CO, MacMillan. His eyes have seen horror, death and the viciousness of the human spirit. Nevertheless, the astounding capacity for human beings to love is not lost on him.

Even through the hatred and bloodshed of war, this singular soldier can feel such a comradeship with another to the extent that he does not leave the other's side if he has a spare moment. This man has killed people; Hell, they _both_ have. They have tortured. They have slaughtered. They have sat back at the end of a long day and shared a cigarette, chuckling about the way their prisoner squealed and told them anything they wanted to know. And now here they are, together again though in circumstances somewhat less joyous. No one is laughing; no one smiles.

One sleeps and one waits.

"_Five years ago, I lost 30,000 men in the blink of an eye," Shepherd is standing over MacTavish, who now has a long knife stuck into his chest. "…And the world just fucking watched."_

_I approach, softly, stealthily as I can. With the chaos of the fires burning around us, I needn't be too quiet, but quickness is paramount. _

"_Tomorrow, there will be no shortage of volunteers, no shortage of patriots," his weapon is pointed at Soap's face. "I know you understand."_

_Yeah you slimy yank', we understand. We understand that you sacrificed thousands to achieve your sick brand of justice. We know one of our young members is lying dead in a ditch, his body burnt to Hell because of you. We know Lieutenant Simon Riley is in intensive care and barely able to breathe on his own due to your ambitions. We understand._

_ I'm on him so quickly that I almost wish I could stop to be impressed with myself. The gun goes off but does not hit Soap. We skirmish and I kick his weapon away, needing desperately to focus on ending Shepherd. He's in far better condition than either Soap or I; we haven't slept in days and that crash jarred the fuck out of both of us. I do my best to hold out but Shepherd is mad with his near victory and I'm too damn dizzy to see straight. Next thing I know, I'm face down in the dirt. Soap's crawling toward Shepherd's discarded gun. He earns a boot to the face for that. The gun remains discarded as I scramble to my feet and land a decent right hook into the general's jaw. He reels._

_ It's all street brawling now. I've left behind all my CQC tactical training in my dying rage. I'm positive I won't make it through this and so I'm determined to take the bastard down with me. I can't even see Soap anymore. I know he still has that knife in his chest and realistically, he's probably dead. Then again, our team has never been the type to just lie down and take it in the ass without a fight. A few hits later and I'm back in the dry dirt, Shepherd kicking at my gut, face, anywhere soft enough to damage. I can't even roll away when he sits on my chest and starts beating my face in with an action much like the kid who's been pushed one too many times by the school bully. I can't bear it any longer and my brain shuts down; I'm out—I can't do anything anymore; it's over._

Price moves to stand near Soap, who continues stroking his companion's hair. He's taken one of Ghost's hands again, squeezing it at random intervals. Maybe one of these times, his partner will squeeze back, his eyes will open and they can all go about ending this war together. The war, right...In the peaceful confines of the low-stim hospital room, Soap has all but forgotten about it. But how can he? What has he been fighting for? Freedom? Security? Sometimes it's hard to say. As he looks at Ghost's still form under the sheets he wonders if he hasn't always been fighting for men like Simon Riley. He fights for the innocent civilians of the world; he needs to protect them from bastards like Shepherd and Makarov. That doesn't explain the primal rage that causes Soap's heart to beat faster and his blood to run hot when he thinks about what Shepherd did to Ghost and Roach. He's fighting for everyone, for those who can't defend themselves _and_ those who can.

"Ease up, soldier," it's Price. He's covering Soap's hand—the one that clutches Ghost's—with his own. Soap is gripping it tighter than he ought to be. He curses under his breath as he loosens his grasp. He never lets go of Ghost's hand, however. Price stands back and moves his hand to Soap's shoulder.

"I must have gotten lost in thought..." Soap mumbles. It's not the usual sort of sentence that passes his lips, but it's appropriate, and true.

"They don't pay you to think about the sort of rubbish you can get lost in."

"Consider this on my dime," MacTavish replies, bitterly. "It's all I _can _think about."

Price sighs, shoulders slackening. He can't get through to Soap right now; he won't until Ghost awakens. Again, Captain MacTavish has drawn back into himself; he's lost in thought once more. This time, it's a memory brought about by the scars on his partner's body. They remind him of the day he got to know Simon Riley, really know him...The day he began to understand.

_"Mum did her best," he mumbles, a cigarette in his mouth; his eyes are distant, like he's looking right through me. "Not a lot she could do with my...louse of a father."_

_ I don't want to press but hang it all, I'm bored. I go silent, to indicate interest. He settles back against the huge server in the IT center of the base we're currently occupying. A hard fight to the core earns us a decent rest while the lads back at HQ rally up an evac heli. It'll be some time and I want to know more about my partner, the Second Lieutenant. He's good, scary good; but I want to know why. _

_ "I was S.A.S. at the time," he begins. "In some rotten Mexican whore-town with a team of good men, on a mission to rout a big-time drug lord."_

_ The picture paints itself clearly in my mind's eye. I see the party-goers, the young "gringos" and their curvaceous—but somehow dirty—escorts. From a distance they are beautiful morsels, easily devoured by their hungry male partners. Upon closer inspection, one can see their jaguar-grins. Their fangs are sharp and ready to sink in. _

_ "It was a dirty, stinkin', awful place…" his words are few but as he takes a long drag on his cigarette, I can feel the weight of them. "His name was Roba...I don't recall a first to tack on...Suffice it to say Roba became our life and our death."_

_ There is no question in my mind that Lieutenant Riley is a torture survivor. He has the eyes of a man who has looked death in the face and kissed it full on the mouth. _

_ His account of his captivity and torture is fragmented, but in the way glass is fragmented, or a grenade; it's not together or connected in any logical way but it hurts, oh God does it hurt. Before I realize it, I'm leaning farther forward, elbows on my knees. The server whirrs as we gather precious data from it. One of his arms is resting on it as his hand balls into a fist, crushing his discarded mask. The cigarette dangles between lips curled into a grimace. _

_ "Do you still want me as your partner, John?" his tone is joking, albeit in a bitter way. Again, his eyes are distant. I hate to think I'm forcing him to relive all that. A soldier has to be tough, but he shouldn't have to remember that kind of experience; it's too much for any man to handle._

_ "Aye, Simon; I do."_

Soap stirs, his head rising from the bed. His hand is wrapped around Ghost's.

"Guess I fell asleep on ya, mate; sorry," he mumbles, looking his partner in the face. He wills Ghost to answer; the soldier does no such thing. His breath is shallow as if in peaceful sleep. His eyes are closed still, as if in death. Despite the dire situation, Soap never once wishes for the alternative; the thought of Ghost dead has crossed his mind only once. It happened when the commando's homeostasis monitor had indicated a severe drop in vital functions, when he heard his partner cry out and fire his weapon, heard him hit the earth; the radio's static had done nothing to mask the pain and fear in his partner's voice. He hears it now, in stereo. Each gunshot punctuated, drawn out until he can almost feel it himself.

"I have to leave, soldier; don't go anywhere while I'm gone," the statement is of course totally asinine. Somehow, it makes the field commander of former Taskforce 141 feel better. He needs to talk to Ghost, even if his partner can't reply. He gazes steadily at the other, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Something is different but Soap can't place it; he supposes that's the reason he's a soldier, not a medical professional. Indeed, the nurse—Anna—shuffles in just as Soap shifts to stand.

"You'll be back tomorrow, Captain?" her tone is an inquiry but they both know the answer before his reply reaches her ears.

"Aye."

He leans forward, standing slowly, Soap's hand still clutching his partner's. Anna's heart begins to beat faster as she watches. Her eyes sting and a lump forms in her throat. These guys have been here before, as the 141. As their attending nurse, she's seen their highs and lows; this one's the worst yet but somehow she doesn't think a thing about the odds stacked against them. They certainly don't.

"'Til tomorrow, then," MacTavish addresses both Nurse Anna and Ghost. He squeezes Lieutenant Riley's hand, imitating one half of a companionate handshake.

Ghost squeezes back.

Soap's heart nearly leaps out of his chest. It flutters like a caged bird and now it is _his_ eyes which are stinging. Anna moves tentatively forward, noting only MacTavish's shock.

"What's wrong, Captain?" she moves quickly to the other side of the bed. "Is it the lieuten—"

Her hand flies to her chest instinctively. Remembering herself, she forces it down and sets her jaw; she's a damn good nurse, after all. Riley's eyes are open and fixed upon his Captain. His mouth pulls into a weak smile as he grasps the other's hand, giving his all just to hold onto it. Moments later, Anna is out the door, moving quickly to retrieve the head doctor. Technically, he would have to okay the Lieutenant's health, though she could see that—with the Captain present—Simon Riley will be just fine.

"How much time have I wasted?" Ghost whispers, laying back. His eyes are those of a remarkably well-rested man, though bodily exhausted. Soap shakes his head.

"I'd rather not—"

"That long, eh?" the Lieutenant looks away, jaw tightening. "Bollocks."

There is a long, pregnant silence between them. The air is filled with unasked questions and answers no one wants to hear. There isn't a thing Ghost feels he can ask that won't be incredibly selfish. He is only lucky to be alive; it has nothing to do with skill. He dislikes that sort of uncertainty, oh how he loathes it. The gray areas of life are frustrating as Hell to him, though those are the areas in which he works best. Perhaps it's the pressure and discomfort...

"Price and I..." Soap begins, shattering the silence. "We got 'im...I-I got Shepherd for you."

_I can hear every word. He talks to me every day. Does time pass? Are they really days? Has it been hours? Weeks? There is no pain, only black, warm silence...Except when John is here. He talks and talks and I only wish I could respond. Then, for what seems like a small eternity, he doesn't come; I don't feel him touch me, take my hand; I don't hear him speak. There is only the tenor of my attending nurse. Slowly, her voice becomes quieter and quieter. I can barely hear when she speaks, even when it's regarding the Captain._

_ "He should be back within a few days," her tone is optimistic, though there's no telling if she believes it or not. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I've begun forming a picture in my mind…or rather a series of pictures. Some of them are memories of Mexico. I see Roba's face in my head, his great, overstuffed face. He's leering and grinning. _

_ "More! More!" he shouts. "You like it, English! You want it; you need it!"_

_ What it is I need, I'll never know because the images flash forward to being back in the UK. I'm at my brother's house, playing with their son; it's near Christmas. Suddenly, they all begin to twitch violently, convulsing and bleeding from every orifice. The boy in my arms becomes an unsettlingly silent young man; his body is aflame and he doesn't say a word, just looks at me with those gray eyes. _

_ "You killer!" hisses my brother. I dare not think his name for fear of retribution. "Just like dad said; you're a fucking murderer!"_

_ Again, the memories flash and I am in my father's hospital room in the oncology ward. He has a great, protruding stomach; it's filled with a tumor. His voice is wheezy and harsh, just like it always was. He can't even stand the sight of me. I'm too clean cut, too good for him. He loves me yet he hates me; the feelings are mutual, every last bit of every last one. _

_ Now I'm standing before my S.A.S. commanding officer. He goes by nothing other than Gaz. This man is my hero. He trains me, pushes me, forces me to become more than my pain, greater than all the hurt and lies that make up my childhood and young adulthood. _

_ I am a lieutenant now, in the newly-formed, joint-Allied Taskforce 141. I have earned this position, and the skull mask I still wear. My old commander is dead—by my hand—and the man under whom I am now to serve was the one who avenged him. _

_ "First Lieutenant John MacTavish, at your service gentlemen," his introduction is loud, forceful and carries the weight of someone who, when he gives an order, you follow it and damn fast. He's young and built like a freight train. "You've already met the Captain," at this, he gestures to Captain Price who's standing nearby, smoking a cigar and ignoring us. "Now ya get ta meet me."_

_I like him._

_ "Simon Riley," I reply. He nods, a grin curling playfully at one corner of his wide mouth._

_ "Ghost right? I've heard good things about you," he seems pleased. After just one mission with me, I know he is pleased simply by the look in his eye. I have a need to make him look at me like that; it makes me feel human again. "Call me Soap," he tells me, following our first jaunt. "Jus' you an' Price know that one."_

_ Some time passes and we become two halves of a deadly whole. The First Lieutenant has become Captain and I've become _his _Lieutenant. _

_ We are on a "data recon" mission in Rio. It's business as usual. We have a prisoner, we have a garage; I have weapons, he has patience. The young face I see as Soap closes the garage door is one of sheer awe. He's the FNG just joined up from the US military. Don't recall what branch; doesn't really matter. They're a good bunch of men, creative and deadly. The kid's call-sign is "Roach". Guess that means he'll never die. Excellent, we need more men like him. Soap's already taken him on some high-risk ops. Says he's good in the field. Maybe "FNG" is a little strong for someone like Roach. _

_ "Where to first?" Soap's voice is deceptively playful. No man enjoys torturing another human being. That's where Soap and I differ; I am no longer a man, in the way a werewolf from a horror story is no longer a man under the light of a full moon. As Soap pulls the sack off our prisoner's head, he steps back and lets me work. Every time I must torture, I think back to Mexico...To what Roba taught me. Maybe he hadn't meant to make the perfect killing machine but that's exactly what he's done. Soap watches passively while I go at it. His eyes tell me much more than his posture; he's sickened. Whatever's left of me dies a little whenever I see that way he looks at me. It's not often, and it's never long, but it's there and it hurts. I don't want John to fear me...quite the opposite._

_ "'Til tomorrow, then..."_

_ Slowly, slowly, I force myself out of the deep corridors of memory. With Soap back, talking to me every day like he did at first, I'm regaining faculties quickly. I manage to squeeze his hand before he releases mine. In that instant, I feel his entire body tense up next to my bed. I hear the nurse move forward, inquiring after my wellbeing. She's a great woman, taking care of me like that for so long. I suppose it's her job but I'm grateful, nevertheless. _

_ I force my tired eyes open._


End file.
